


Soul Searching

by freakylemurcat



Category: Junjou Romantica
Genre: AU, Gen, M/M, Parallel Universes, Supernatural Elements, cars!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 14:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the supernatural attempting to prey on his Usagi-san, Misaki finds himself set to a task that he cannot bring himself to complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**The first hunger pangs for a century were like nails through her body, and she reached out insubstantially to find something to feed on.**

**The first soul she found was cheery, bright, and untouchable. She recoiled in disgust and hid behind her glass in disgust, waiting for a new victim. This one she couldn't touch, pure and undamaged bar two deep scores. She could bide her time for now.**

**The next soul was young and fresh, still tinged with teenaged angst, but threatening to develop into the same pure cheer as the first. It had similar twin cracks to the first, but there were hairline fractures spreading out to cover the surface. There was so much potential here, but when she tried to pull the soul away it burnt much as the first did. Angrily, she let go again and went to sulk once more.**

**But then...**

**The third soul was glass held together with tobacco and typewriter ink, a veritable banquet of pain and frustration and anger and bitterness. Just the thought of such a morsel was enough to make her tremble with anticipation, splintering her glass with the urge to spring on it immediately. But she quashed the feeling; a good seasoning of irritation could be added in short order.**

* * *

Takahiro had given the mirror to Misaki to keep for a few weeks until Manami's birthday. It was a pretty thing – a black wood frame with blossoms inlaid with a red enamel. The glass was grimy, and a crack was forming down the centre of the mirror and Akihiko promised to have it replaced as part of his birthday present to her.

Misaki could still hear the bitter tinge in the man's voice when he said that. He knew Akihiko loved him, and not Takahiro, but it still upset him a bit when he was reminded that his lover had once pined for his brother.

In an act of small, petty revenge he made far too much green pepper laden risotto, so they could make any number of meals out of it. Usagi-san grumbled through his first meal, and then spent as much of the next day as possible out of the house to avoid the next dose of peppers.

Unfortunately this meant that he was stuck away from the house when his car refused to unlock and left him stranded outside on an achingly cold day for four hours and unable to leave because leaving a Ferrari with a malfunctioning lock system un-chaperoned in any city was a good way to never seeing that car again.

Akihiko came home frozen and frustrated to a Misaki who had been seething all day about his lover's disappearance.

"Where the hell where you?" he snapped, ignoring Akihiko's attempts to unbutton his coat with icy fingers.

"Waiting for a tow company. The car was being tricky."

"You should have called. I kept that rice cooking for ages I should have been doing useful stuff in!"

"I would have, but my phone was inside the car. And I was outside."

"How useless are you! Keep your phone on you!"

Akihiko growled and finally managed to clear himself of his coat. He stalked over to the coffee machine and turned it on, grabbing a random glass.

Misaki half shrieked in irritation and snatched the glass back. "Heat resistant ones! Can you not read, idiot?"

The author took another glass, this one clearly labelled, and poured the coffee, grumbling, "I don't think it would make any difference, breaking a glass. My hands are so cold I don't think there's a drop of blood in them."

"Go warm them on a radiator then!" snapped Misaki.

A honeyed voice purred, "I'd rather warm them on you."

Misaki slapped the approaching and truly freezing hands away and growled, "Don't even think about it."

Akihiko gave up and went to bed.

This was only the start of a terrible week for the both of them. After another five days of car troubles, cold weather, university, jobs, deadlines, editors, professors, interfering family, chain smoking and green pepper avoidance, the pair of them were barely on speaking terms anymore.

They had both said some pretty harsh stuff and Misaki cringed internally when he remembered the agonised look on Usagi-san's face when he may have told the man he hated him, hated him with his stupid smoking and his lack of regard for deadlines and his inability to be a normal person and so on. It had been cruel and unfair, and he should have had the sense not to ever say a single word of it.

* * *

**She sensed hurt, guilt, pain in such doses she could have made a meal alone from that. But she wanted the main dish – the soul.**

**She pounced in the dead of night, while they slept alone.**

* * *

Misaki couldn't seem to sleep anymore. He was alone in his small, cold bed and he couldn't stop thinking about the arguments.

Both of them were proud creatures, and neither wanted to be the first to admit they were wrong, but Misaki was dying to say sorry right now. When Akihiko pulled that face... Dear god, it was heartbreaking.

Downstairs, a glass shattered.

Terror seized him momentarily – a burglar? But he shook that thought away – this was a well secured building. An intruder wouldn't be able to get past the front gate, let alone all the way up to their penthouse. It was just Usagi-san dosing himself with coffee for an all-nighter.

He decided to seize the moment and go apologise. Otherwise Usagi-san would start writing those stories that reviewers tended to describe as 'gut-wrenching' or, even worse, 'bitter'.

Anyway, his bed was cold and lonely.

He padded out onto the landing; it was dark and silent in the penthouse, so he fumbled for the light switch. It remained silent, there was no one lurking in the kitchen or standing by the bay windows as Usagi-san usually would.

"Usagi-san?" He peered about worriedly and crept down the stairs. The man hadn't collapsed on the floor anywhere, which was probably a good sign, but that was equally a bad sign. Who had smashed the glass?

Misaki took a careful step forward and yelped in pain. Something sharp had embedded itself in his foot and robbed him of his balance. He pitched forward, cold shards spiking into his palms as he caught his fall. These prove to be glass; scattered across the floor are their siblings, forming a spray formation from a blackened wood frame. The mirror had apparently exploded, leaving a matte backing plate exposed to the world. The student gingerly picked the frame up and studied the plate – there were symbols engraved into the metal, unpleasant ones that made his eyes water. When he traced one complicated line with his fingertip, burning sensations spread up his arm.

"I wouldn't touch that."

The voice is that of a woman, slow and pleased. Misaki yelped and turned to stare at her.

She was grey-skinned and black-haired, wearing shadows as a dress and eyes like an abyss. She held a silver wire in both hands, a wire that pulsed gently with a light of its own, winding it around talon laden fingers.

"What the fuck are you doing in my house?" Misaki stood up and pointed a fingers at her, trembling with rage and terror. "Did you break this?" He wielded the frame and she grimaced.

"I did break the glass, but I would appreciate if you didn't break my frame. I need that for living in."

Slowly, Misaki took a breath and released it again. "What?"

"Don't break the plate. It is the doorway to my home." She spoke as if to an idiot, gently placing one end of the silver wire in her mouth. Immediately she sighed in pleasure, and Misaki felt an overwhelming urge to wrench the wire away from her. "Oh, only humans can do this to themselves. You would never get such a meal from an animal." She opened a mouth that was dark as a pit, bared red fangs and swallowed the wire.

And promptly coughed it back up.

"What has he attached this to?" She peered at the wire like it held a secret and then froze. Misaki shuddered as her unnatural gaze fell on him and she smiled. "He's attached this to you, little boy."

"Who? What? How?" He wielded the frame again. "You explain everything or I break this!"

The woman rolled her eyes and licked the wire again. "I am a soul-spider, and as such we eat souls. This is such a thing, and a very tasty one too. I would be eating right now, but the man I stole it from has managed to attach it to you, so I can't." She narrowed her eyes. "You're too nice for me to be eating, so if you could just give his soul to me that would be great."

Misaki clutched the mirror frame to his chest and stepped back, ignoring the pain in his feet when glass scrunched into his soles. A soul-spider... He'd never heard of anything like that, not even in the fairy tales. And if that wire was someone's soul... This was the oddest explanation he'd ever heard, but it just seemed to fit the situation.

Wait, if that wire was someone's soul, and Misaki was fairly sure he still had his, there was only one other person in the apartment it could belong to.

"That's Usagi-san's!" he yelled, anger replacing the fear and confusion for a moment. "Don't you dare eat that! That's _mine_!"

A clawed hand shot out and buried itself into his chest. It should have hurt and bled and killed him, but instead it drew back unbloodied and all there was a slight 'ping' somewhere Misaki couldn't describe. The woman raised her hand and showed him the emerald wire wrapped around her fingers.

"This is yours." She let go and shook her hand as if disgusted by the sensation of Misaki's soul on her skin. The student touched his chest in horror, and then gritted his teeth. He was not backing down. That was Usagi-san's soul and someone needed to fight for it. "You should give me his. If you don't I'll have to kill you, and neither of us would enjoy that."

"I am not giving you his soul." Misaki gripped the mirror frame with both hands and tapped it against the wall. "And if you try any funny stuff, I'm smashing your 'home' to bits, understand?"

"I see we have reached an impasse." The woman ambled away and slid onto a sofa, playing casually with the silver wire. "Maybe you should go make sure your 'Usagi-san' is still breathing, and we can think of some way to solve this?"

* * *

Usagi-san was breathing, if shallowly, but he would not wake, no matter how hard Misaki shook him. He was also absolutely freezing, so the student hunted out a few extra blankets for him when it was clear he wasn't going to open his eyes.

"So..." The woman had clearly crept up behind him, and was whispering into his ear. Misaki wanted to turn around and shove her away, but he didn't think pushing a thing that ate souls was a good idea at all. "So, you still won't give him up?"

"No way."

"And I couldn't eat both of you. Your soul is just too pleasant, despite all the cracks. And killing you would lose me both of you and get me in trouble…" She sighed and then dropped something onto the bed sheets. "Go on. Take it."

The object looked like a jar, but with blackened wood for a lid and occult symbols carved into the glass. Misaki didn't touch it – he could still feel the burning in his fingers from where he'd touched the symbols on the back of the mirror.

"So here is what I shall do. I can't send myself out of this world without another meal. But I can send _you_. Wander off through a few of the multiverses and find a warped little version of your darling and steal _his_ soul for me."

Misaki gawped at her in silence.

"Don't make that face. It's not too hard. Just find a man who's suffering like this one and stab him in the chest with that." She pointed at the lid of the jar, which tipped off the container to display a sharp metal spike on the other side. "Wind the soul up, stuff it in the jar and come back home."

"I don't know how to do that!"

"Oh, you'll figure it out as you go along." She smiled nastily.

"But I don't have time! Usagi-san will starve while I'm gone!"

"I'll make sure nothing happens to my meal, don't you worry." The smile widened slightly – Misaki could see more fangs in her mouth than any human-like creature should have. "The soul jar will disguise you and itself as you travel, so you don't attract unnecessary attention."

Tears of anger and frustration welled up in Misaki's eyes. Earlier that evening the worst thing in the world was the fact that he had temporarily upset Usagi-san and that he was going to have to apologise. Now… If he didn't follow the orders of this creepy, soul-eating monster, his Akihiko would die. And so would Misaki himself, by the sound of it. Aware he wasn't acting his age, but not caring at all, he stamped a foot and ran off, hurtling down the stairs and grasping helplessly for the phone.

He dialled the first number that came to mind – his brother's – but the phone made no noise. Desperately, he tried the emergency number, but still there was silence. When he fumbled for his mobile, the screen was filled with grey static, flickering every so often to show a creepy blackness that Misaki hadn't realised this little screen could manage.

"You won't find anyone to help you, boy," said the woman, advancing down the stairs at a leisurely pace. She still held the silver thread in her hands, watching it like a starving man might watch a meal being cooked, and appeared to pay no attention to Misaki at all. He took his chance and bolted to the door, but then there she was, looming horrible and dark over him.

The door lock creaked and crunched heavily in the socket, and the electrical bolt gave a fizzing noise. Misaki hoped for a second that it would send out some sparks or smoke, and trigger the fire alarm, but no such luck. His disappointment must have been obvious on his face, for the woman laughed then.

"No escape," she crooned, dangling the wire in front of his nose temptingly. "You cannot have it until you get me a replacement…"

"But…"

The woman's face distorted for a second as her temper twanged. "This is not a hard choice! You keep your own life and his, while some other imbecile loses theirs. You will not know them for longer than a few minutes, and all you have to do is stab them in the chest with a supernatural weapon! There will be no blood, no guts, no gore, no loss! _Why won't you do it?"_

Misaki stared up at her, watching in terror as her arms lengthened and bent and broke at odd angles and her body hunched up and widened and her jaws jutted out of her face to form pincers of bone. He had no choice. "Fine," he sobbed, holding out a shaking hand, "Fine, I'll do it…"

"Good boy." Just like that she was normal again, smiling broadly and showing only a few of her many, sharpened teeth. "Turn the symbols on top when you want to move on, and try not to break it. Please."

The jar was dropped into Misaki's shaking hand – it was lighter than he was expecting, but the symbols remained horrible up close. He touched one with the tip of a finger and winced at the sensation as he pulled his hand away. On the surface of the wood, the sign gave a wiggling little lurch and squeezed through a field of other gruesome marks, following the digit like a piranha. Misaki almost dropped the jar in shock, but a bony hand closed over his and the soul-spider's face loomed down, upsettingly close.

"Take care, little boy, and I'll watch your precious while you journey."

There was an immense sucking sensation at Misaki's feet, and he looked down in time to see the ground disappear, a hole as black as the woman's eyes growing like spilled ink. He shrieked in fear, tried to grab at the woman and fell.


	2. Pole Position - Part 1

Misaki awoke, sore and scared, clutching the jar tight to his chest and not at home at all. For a moment his brain coasted along as if it was all had just been a nightmare, but realisation struck hard.

He was not staring at the ceiling of his bedroom or even the high roof of the penthouse, but metal slats. Fear spiked down his back and he leapt up, stumbling and collapsing forward against some cinderblocks. Above him was the roar of a crowd and the thump of feet, but that rumble was out done by the thunder of engines and the squeal of tyres.

"What is happening?" he squawked. His heart was hammering in his chest, throbbing hard against his ribs. Still clutched in one of his hands was the soul jar, and as Misaki watched the figures on the lid squiggled and his grip faltered momentarily. "Oh god…" Underneath his fingers, the jar was almost melting, swiftly becoming an amorphous blob and reforming. "What the..?"

It was a hat. Misaki was holding a hat with a racing car embroidered on the front, where he had been originally holding a wooden jar. With a huff of panicked breath, Misaki crumpled the fabric in his hand and buckled down again, hyperventilating.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…" The black mist was coming down over his eyes again. "Oh no…"

"Are you all right?" someone called out. "Hey, you!" There was a crunching noise and the person swore. "This bloody place..!"

A big hand closed on Misaki's shoulder and he looked up in time to see a strangely familiar face. But before he could place it, the blackness closed down completely and he fainted.

* * *

The second awakening was no more pleasant than the first, but at least this time Misaki found himself in a bed and looking at an actual ceiling.

He lay very still, trying not to think about the situation at all, until he realised that someone was watching him. Shaking slightly, he glanced over and met a dark blue gaze, kind and amused.

"Good to see you awake," said the man. Misaki finally managed to place the man – he was the florist who Misaki kept buying roses from. But today, and here, he was dressed in a white coat, a stethoscope flung around his neck carelessly. "Crowds get too much for you?"

Misaki opened his mouth to explain exactly what happened, before his brain kicked in and he changed it to a strangled, "Yes."

"Been happening a lot today. It's an important race after all!" He chuckled and straightened in his chair, a shaft of light thrown across his face. "Hmm. Usami-san must still be in pole." There was a soft roar and a scream of engines; the doctor nodded firmly. "There he goes."

"Usami-san," whispered Misaki, eyes widening. "As in Usami Akihiko?"

"Only one in the sport. Thankfully…" The doctor padded over and checked Misaki's pulse. "Good, you're calming down."

Calming down? That sounded more like wishful thinking than anything else – Misaki still felt like he was all a flutter, but it seemed rude to contradict a doctor like that. "Ha, yes… Just a bit.. overwhelmed…" He heaved himself up and peered out of the window as well, just in time to see a line of racing cars shoot past. The first one was weaving back and forth across the track, preventing the vehicles chasing it from squeezing past. "That's Usami-san?"

The doctor laughed, "You're new to the sport, hmm?" He helped Misaki get out of the bed and indicated for him to take a seat by the window. "Might as well stay here for a while. Get a front row seat, as it were." He pointed as the cars drove past again. "Frontrunner's Usami-san. Second is Asahina-san, and third is Miyagi-san. Lap 43 now!"

Misaki dropped his forehead into his palms and whimpered. Asahina-san was here? And Miyagi-sensei? What was happening?

"You all right?"

With a groan, Misaki nodded and raised his head again. He managed a smile, weak and watery, and nodded.

"Just wanted someone other than Usami-san to win for once?" The man smiled. "That'll be the day."

"…no…" whined Misaki, because even if he wasn't sure what was happening, he always wanted Usagi-san to win.

The man gestured for him to come over. "Come and see then. He's still leading the pack."

Misaki eased himself up onto his feet and gingerly brushed the dust and dirt off his clothes. In doing so, he realised that the soul jar was no longer clasped tightly in his hand and panic surged into his throat. If he'd lost it already-! A wide-eyed look about spotted the offending item on the bed side table, still in the guise of an embroidered baseball cap. He traced the silver lines along the shape of the racing car, ran his fingers over curlicues of purple thread and looked up to see the doctor watching him.

"Are you sure you're all right?" He shrugged when Misaki nodded furiously, gripping the fabric tightly in his fist and staggering over to the window. As he craned his neck, a flash of silver bolted along the track, sunlight glimmering off paint so brightly that Misaki couldn't make out anything. Seconds later it was followed by a stream of other shimmering cars, and a howl of noise. "You are a Streamscript fan then?"

"Um…" said Misaki, glancing back down at the hat, and noticing for the first time the embroidered name on the brim of the cap. "I guess."

"They've had a great season," said the doctor, "Not even Takahashi Sport could beat them this time, and they normally come in top."

He knew he shouldn't ask, that he should just leave it, ignore it and spare himself the extra pain, but Misaki asked anyway, "Takahashi Sport?"

"Yup. They're…" They waited for the cars to screech around again and the doctor counted through the field, "Fifth. The car's just not right this race."

"Takahashi Sport.." murmured Misaki again, turning about and staggering back to his bed, the doctor following him closely. He flopped down onto the bed and whimpered into his pillow for a minute until he felt he wasn't in danger of screaming anymore.

"Now you're back on your feet, can I ask you your name?"

Misaki almost blurted out his name immediately, but sense made him stutter out that he didn't know. "Something must be wrong with me!" he said.

"You may have hit your head off something," said the doctor, starting to look very serious. "I'm going to have to check you over fully. You may need to go to the hospital."

"Just as long as I get to keep my hat."

"Yeah… Just follow my finger please…"

* * *

The doctor, whose name turned out to be Kusama Nowaki, spent a good half hour poking and prodding Misaki and came away with nothing to show for it except Misaki still refusing to admit he knew his own name or where he lived. Finally the man sat back and shrugged.

"You're perfectly fine," he said, "There's not a lick of a thing wrong with you."

Misaki scrunched the hat up in his hands again and tried to smile as nicely as he could. The doctor was clearly distressed about his predicament – not as distressed, of course, about Misaki himself was – but there was no way he could explain it without earning himself a one way ticket to the insane asylum.

"If you'd just stick around here for a while longer," the doctor was saying, thumbing his bottom lip anxiously. "I've got to check the drivers over first, but I should be able to think of something."

Obediently, Misaki hopped back up on the bed, huddling his feet under himself. Silence and peace would help; he would be able to sit and try to figure out what the hell had happened. Everything was so strange and…

"You get five minutes each!" exclaimed Nowaki, almost drowned out by the stamp of several pairs of feet. "Usami, Miyagi and Asahina go first – you're due on podium in twenty!"

Usami? Misaki glanced towards the door long enough to catch a glimpse of a familiar silhouette, and then decided that he couldn't do this. He buried himself in the sheets, wrapping up a little cocoon that protected him from the sight of a man who was his lover, but somehow not. A different version of Usami Akihiko, somehow in a different world but with essentially the same soul.

The nasty thought crossed Misaki's mind – if he leapt up now, got the soul jar into its original shape and stabbed this Akihiko with it, thereby stealing his soul, this could all be over just as quickly as it started. But, no, he wouldn't do that, because he simply couldn't. It was not possible, in any world, shape or form, that Takahashi Misaki would stab Usami Akihiko for the purposes of sacrificing him. Or for any other purpose come to that!

It all hurt his head so much and he huddled up a bit more to clutch at his forehead a bit more effectively. In the room beyond his cocoon, people were laughing and gossiping, and one of those voices was Akihiko's. Even if Misaki had blocked his ears, he still would have been able to hear that voice, picked up the vibrations of his silken chuckle through the way his breathing stopped momentarily. Never mind throwing the sheets back and stabbing the bastard, Misaki wanted to leap on him and just never let go.

But then, that delightfully rich, deep voice was gone, and so was its owner's presence. Misaki stuck his head through his cocoon and looked about in desperation, only finding groups of men he vaguely recognised and Nowaki, who met his worried gaze and smiled.

"Want to come see the podium? You just missed Usami-san in here though. He'd have probably given you an autograph."

"I know," muttered Misaki, untangling himself and following the doctor. If he could see Akihiko from a distance… He was intent on avoiding the man close to, but surely seeing him from far away wouldn't be too bad? Just so Misaki could see that he wasn't the same as his own Usagi-san: there was no way that a man who drove race cars for a living could look the same as his lazy author.

* * *

He was crossing the track in Nowaki's footsteps when he realised that he was trying to simultaneously talk himself into _and_ out of stealing this Usami's soul.

In front of the podium were a series of cars. Misaki stopped and stared at them interestedly; they were all battered and scraped, covered in dust and soot, but still hulked on the pavement menacingly, like predators about to strike. Two of them were white, with designs in different shades of blue, while the middle was a monster in silver, curious purple curlicues on its flanks.

Nowaki gestured for Misaki to take a place close to the rail, so he could see better, and the young man found himself standing in front of the silver car. Its headlights were pointed directly at him, and the sloped lines made it look like it was scowling. He knew it was simply a guilty conscience talking, but the sneaking suspicion that the Streamscript car didn't like him just wouldn't go away, so finally he snapped and hissed, "He likes his Ferrari more than you!" at it. Perhaps it was just the sudden realisation that he had snapped and was now talking to a car making everything look a bit more normal, but Misaki would have sworn the headlight lines softened slightly.

Static momentarily sounded through the nearby speakers and then a familiar voice boomed out, "On this 25th season of the Seasons Cup, the winner on the Fuji Speedway circuit is Usami Akihiko, for Streamscript!"

The crowd went wild and out bounded a tall, blond man, dressed in the same purple and silver colours as the car that Misaki had just attempted to intimidate. He gave a cheery wave to the crowd and hopped up onto the tallest spot on the podium, grinning fantastically at the assembled people. The other two spots were filled with less fanfare and the trophies were handed up.

The man standing tall and impressive on the podium was Akihiko, there was no doubt about that. Misaki stared at him, open mouthed, as he raised the trophy above his head and basked momentarily in the rapturous applause. On the second place podium he was joined by Miyagi-sensei, who clapped Akihiko on the shoulder and tugged him down to say something in his ear. Akihiko laughed, his genuinely happy expression on his face, and when the time came for the champagne, he emptied most of his bottle over the older man's head.

With the champagne mostly poured down the neck of Miyagi's racing overalls, the drivers exited the podium and the crowd's attention began to drift.

Nowaki had gotten himself locked in conversation with a pair of well-endowed pit girls, and while he was clearly intent of finding a way out, Misaki wasn't sure if he should help. With the doctor distracted, he could maybe make a quick getaway and find somewhere he wouldn't have to explain who he was. He took a few cautious steps into the crowd and then began to burrow through faster, occasionally elbowing people in the side to get them to move. As the mob was beginning to move away from the podium, it was possible for Misaki to slip through the forming gaps in the press of bodies and pause so he could find his way to the exit, without being swept back up to the pits.

That was when he spotted them – the man was tall and broad, lighter skinner and lighter haired than his dark-haired, tanned female companion. Misaki knew them very well indeed, even if sometimes he struggled to remember exactly what their faces looked like. They were his parents.

While he stared, blindly, at the pair of them, another joined them. Takahiro, smiling as broadly as ever, dressed in the same blue and green flame-retardant overalls and covered in grease. Their father clapped him on the back and his mother gave him one of her more beautiful smiles and Misaki had not wanted to throw up so much since he'd run into his bedroom and found Usagi-san almost dead, missing his soul and not likely to get it back at this rate.

Misaki just stood and stared at them, ignoring the dispersing crowd around them who found him a tricky obstacle to navigate. When the little family began to move off, Misaki followed, not caring where they were headed.

And then Nowaki grabbed him by both shoulders and towed him back through a group of obnoxious stewards, making him lose track of his parents and brother. The temptation to scream and fight to get free and launch himself back towards his parents with the promise that he'd never let them go was unbearable, but before Misaki could even tell the doctor to go away, Nowaki gave him a chiding little shake.

"Oh, you're not getting away that easily!" chuckled Nowaki, squeezing his hand tighter on the younger man's shoulder. "Back to my office with you! I've some more ideas I think we should explore."

* * *

This time around, Misaki found himself trapped in an another series of prodding and poking and tests and worried calls to other doctors. In the end his condition spoke for his itself – aside from the fact he was pretending to not remember who he was or where he lived, he was perfectly healthy. There was no point in hospitalisation, no further tests to be done.

"You should come home with me," said Nowaki, shaking out his white coat and folding it back into his bag, "If you don't know where you are, I won't feel comfortable letting you run off on your own. We'll visit the hospital and the police by the end of the week if you don't get your memory back."

Misaki gaped at the man, dumbstruck by the kindness of the offer. The naivety struck him hard as well – any number of less-well intentioned people could take advantage of such kindness. It was probably a miracle that Nowaki still had a place to live and the clothes on his back.

"I'm fine," said Misaki, trying to make his voice firm and not succeeding. "Please, I don't want to bother you."

"Nonsense," said Nowaki-san, fixing Misaki with a sharp gaze. "This is my job."

Misaki could have sworn the man's job was to heal people, not take in strays, but he didn't push it anymore. Right now he just wanted someone to pat his head and figure this all out for him, but Akihiko here was apparently more interested in driving cars than fussing over Misaki. Nothing made sense here.

* * *

When they arrived at the apartment – a small two bedroomed affair in a fairly affluent Tokyo suburb – it turned out it was less of a miracle that was keeping Kusama Nowaki safe, but more of a demon. Kamijou Hiroki was waiting in the apartment, a scowl fresh on his face, and Misaki almost fled at the sight.

"Who is this?" the man asked, glancing once at Misaki and then fixing Nowaki with an impressive glare. Nowaki had explained as best he could, but it was clear that Kamijou did not intend to be welcoming. He was polite, but never extended anything more than the bare minimum of common courtesy to his new guest. Misaki sat silently on the sofa and fiddled anxiously with the soul-jar, picking at the threads on the hat it was pretending to be, until dinner arrived in the shape of take-out. He wasn't hungry, but ate anyway so as to not seem ungrateful; as soon as he could he retired to the bedroom he had been offered, and tucked himself down into the bed without changing into the clothes he'd been offered by his hosts.

Sleep didn't come as easy as he would have liked. His brain kept calling up the images of his parents, of Usagi-san resplendent on the podium and so instead he lay awake, still clutching the hat to his chest and listening to Nowaki and Kamijou argue in their own bedroom. It started off as a ferocious fight, lowered into a simmer and then lurched straight into a mess of moaning and thumping. All that did was make Misaki feel even more homesick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally didn't forget about this! Ahem... This is why I can't have more than one thing going on at once!
> 
> Anyway! Now I can explain the premise better, in case you don't get it yet - it's going to be a series of AUs, featuring just as many versions of Misaki, Akihiko and their relationship as I care to explore. I've got a good mix of fantasy and proper AUs planned, as well as a few that are a bit more normal. There are a couple of these things that previously had lives of their own, but I've gotten nowhere with them so they got sewn up into this monster. I'll admit this racing!verse was one of them - I spent too long designing car liveries to be considered sane...


	3. Pole Position - Part 2

"Of course I'm not going!" Kamijou huffed and crossed his arms angrily. From his tentative perch on the sofa, Misaki risked a glance at the man and was shocked to see him without his shirt on. Not that Misaki was into that sort of thing, but the man who had been his professor in his home world was, well, _hot_. He blushed and looked away before anyone caught him looking. "You know I need to rest my voice after races."

Uncharitably, Misaki thought that Kamijou hadn't been resting his voice much the night before.

"I know, Hiro-san, but it's the big party of the season. Everyone's in Tokyo after yesterday, and it's good to socialise outside of work." Nowaki was pulling the saddest face possible, but Kamijou wasn't budging.

"No. I hate those things." He cleared his throat, and for the first time Misaki realised how rough the man's voice sounded. "I'm coming down with something anyway."

Nowaki sighed and clapped a big hand to the shorter man's forehead, frowning slightly. "You are a bit warm… Maybe we shouldn't have done so much last night."

"Idiot!" shrieked Kamijou, as Misaki shrunk further down in his seat in embarrassment. "Not while your stray is here!" An idea seemed to strike him and he turned on Misaki like a predator wheeling onto an easier prey. "Why don't you take the stray then? You want to go, I want him out of the house, it makes sense."

"Hiro-san…"

Kamijou crossed his arms again and glared at Misaki. "You. Would you go to this stupid party?"

"I.. I don't have any clothes," said Misaki, still feeling a bit sulky from being referred to a 'stray'. He hadn't asked to be brought into their home, or even to be in this world, but of course Kamijou wasn't to know that. The realisation made Misaki feel even more sullen.

"There's still one of my old suits in the closet," said Kamijou, waving a careless hand. "It'll probably fit; you'll just need to turn up the hems a bit."

"But…" Misaki gave up. He slumped down and let Nowaki take up the baton again, but the tall man didn't seem to mind much anymore.

"Well, if you're sure, Hiro-san… I'd like you to come with me, but if you're feeling ill…" He smiled brightly and shrugged, turning to Misaki. "I'll find that suit for you and see what I can do about the cuffs." The smile was replaced by a kind expression momentarily. "Unless you really don't want to go either?"

Misaki gawped at the man for a moment, briefly struck by how handsome he was when he was being sweet. Seconds later he realised that Kamijou was starting to fume, almost audibly seething, and Misaki glanced down again to prevent sudden decapitation. "I'll go," he said, quietly. At least it would give him something to do for an evening, rather than sitting alone in his borrowed bed and borrowed pyjamas, listening to two lovers in the room next door. Anything was better than that.

* * *

Every formal event that Misaki ever seemed to attend was held in the Teito Hotel, and this party was no exception. In this universe though, it didn't seem as huge as the Teito back home – there was no new building around the back for a start – but there was a huge sign hung over the front door with a fancy trophy symbol emblazoned on it.

"The Seasons Cup," Misaki read out loud as he followed Nowaki into the foyer. Arranged around the room were displays for each team; Misaki's eyes were immediately drawn to the green and blue pattern on the Takahashi Sport booth, but the silver and purple Streamscript came in a close second. No one he recognised was manning the displays, so he stumbled after the race doctor, tripping over the toes of his overly large shoes. Not only had he had to borrow Kamijou's old suit, but also a pair of his fancy shoes, and while trousers and sleeves were easy to shorten, shoes were not. This situation was worsened yet more by the fact that Misaki had refused to let the soul jar out of his sight for even a minute, and so it was folded up clumsily and stuffed into one of the inner pocket of his blazer. The result was that Misaki felt like a very buttoned-down clown, constantly under threat fro his own clumsy feet.

Misaki stood miserably at Nowaki's shoulder, hand plunged in the pocket of his borrowed suit, clutching the fabric of the disguised soul jar in stress-whitened fingers. All the while Nowaki was trying to introduce him to a range of people – ones Misaki recognised like Miyagi-sensei, Asahina-san, Isaka-san, and some he didn't. He tried to smile and act polite, but the act was telling on his thinning reserves before even an hour was out.

Then Misaki caught sight of a glorious vision indeed; Aikawa-san was slowly coaxing Usagi-san out of a corner he had antisocially wedged himself into, and was clearly trying to tempt him over to a range of rich looking benefactors. The man was not happy, eyes icy cold, lips pursed, his chin tilted up in a haughty expression. She'd get him nowhere, Misaki thought and then blushed when that lavender blue gaze flitted over the rest of the crowd and met Misaki's stare. He couldn't react fast enough, and Akihiko had broken free of Aikawa's grip and made a beeline through the throng, straight for Misaki.

"Kusama-sensei!" The man came to a halt in front of Nowaki, giving him a careful smile and tilting his glass to the man. There was no champagne in it and Nowaki gave it a meaningful look.

"Please tell me that's not vodka."

"It's _water_ ," growled Usagi-san, "I don't drink before a race, and, even if I did, it wouldn't be _vodka_."

Nowaki shrugged, a wicked look in his eyes. "Put yourself off that for a while? Don't blame you – if I'd drank myself to such a state on one spirit only, I think I might give it a bit of a miss in the future."

"Thank you, Kusama," said Akihiko, "Now, if you've finished tormenting me about my past…"

"Never, Usami-san," said Nowaki happily, He gestured to Misaki and introduced him. "I found him unconscious under the stands last Sunday. He's still having memory problems."

"Oh dear." Akihiko's smile was benevolent and distantly kind, like the sun shining near to the poles. "At least you remember who you are."

"It's the only thing I have," whispered Misaki. He was simply unable to take his eyes off the other man's face: why had he never realised how stunning Akihiko was? He hadn't paid enough attention to the way the man was put together, hadn't calcutated the angles and curves and recorded the colour shades and textures.

"Dear me…" said Akihiko again, tapping his glass llightly against Misaki's. "To finding your way back home then."

"Thank you…" Misaki watched in silence as Aikawa elbowed her way through the last of the crowd and caught Usagi-san's elbow in a death-grip, hauling him off via brute force and the occasional threat of a stiletto heel on his foot. Silently, the young man drained his glass, handed it to a passing waiter and excused himself from Nowaki's presence for some air.

Most of the balconies and terraces were already occupied – some by groups of people chatting and smoking, some by couples snuggled up tightly. Misaki walked halfway around the hotel before he found a quiet spot, complete with a bench tucked up beside a fish pond. He stared down at the laxily circling goldfish, hating them for their easy, trouble and space-time travel free lives. If he had been a goldfish, life would have been so much fucking easier – of course, at some point, there would probably be some sort of insane, albino angelfish introduced to his tank and fish-Misaki would end up living a life of domesticity in a submerged, upside-down flowerpot.

There was always going to have to be a Usagi-san.

"Oh, sorry," rumbled a voice. "Didn't realise you were here."

Misaki looked up and nearly screamed for the other man not to go. It was Usami Akihiko again, with a lit cigarette smoking away in his mouth, and one hand already on the door handle to go back inside. "Stay! I mean, if you want of course…" He laughed nervously and then just gave up, looking away in embarrassment and grief.

"Thank you." The man padded over and peered down into the pond as well, watching as the fish circled aimlessly. "Enjoying the party?"

"I'd rather just go home," said Misaki, honestly.

Usagi-san nodded and grimaced, clasping a hand to the back of his neck. He catched sight of Misaki's concerned look and smiles. "Whiplash. Bloody Miyagi does it on purpose some days, I swear."

"I thought Nowaki-san should have seen that," said Misaki, trying not to show how much he cared and failing miserably.

"Oh, he probably did, but he knows better than to fuss."

"He's been fussing over me too much." Misaki felt like a petulant child when he said it, but it was true. "He took me into his home. He won't let me spend any time on my own."

Usagi-san chuckled and eased down onto the bench beside the pond. "Nowaki's a sucker for waifs and sad faces. You're stuck with him until you figure out who you are."

"If I take much longer, Kamijou-san's going to kill me."

"Hiroki's fairly ferocious, true." Usagi-san's calm lavender blue eyes met Misaki's frustrated gaze, that amused little spark kicking off in the corner of his irises that made Misaki's stomach fill with butterflies. "So, this memory business…"

Misaki narrowed his eyes sharply, but all Usagi-san did was chuckle dryly.

"Relax," he said, giving a relaxed wave as if to waft away all of Misaki's concerns. "I'm not going to interrogate you."

"Yeah, well, I don't like this situation either," mumbled Misaki defensively.

"So you are running away from something, then?" asked Usagi-san.

"What? No!" For a second Misaki was incensed, before the uncertatainly struck him and suddenly it wasn't so clear cut. "Maybe. I don't know."

"You have the look." Usagi-san's long fingers curled under Misaki's chin, tilting his head upwards so those stunning, soul-piercing eyes could examine him clearly. "If you know what you're searching for, it's easy enough to find it."

Misaki muttered, "Sometimes too easy." His cryptic reply made the blond man cock his head to the side curiously, but Misaki had had enough of that line of questioning and reluctantly shook off the hand on his chin. "I'm not running," he said, firmly, not really believing it.

"I've run away from my share of things," said the other man, pulling on his cigarette and breathing out with a satisfied purr. "Mostly people coming up on me fast in corners, but it's still true. Everyone does it after all."

"Yeah, probably." Misaki reached into his inner pocket again and his questing fingers met the brim of the soul jar, still in its hat form but starting to feel distinctly wooden. Could it sense its prey was nearby? The hellish thing wasn't sentient was it? – if it was Misaki would seriously think about not putting it on his head again… He shuddered, but kept his grip on the damned thing, his mind starting to go wretchedly blank. At some point, he would have to stab Usami Akihiko and steal his soul… If he did it now he could go home and be with his own Akihiko and life would be fine again.

Then the bastard reached out and ruffled Misaki's hair, his big hand achingly familiar and kind, even as it ruined several minutes of frantic combing and gel. The urge to push up into the touch like some sort of kitten was almost unbearable, but Misaki held it in check, clenching his eyes shut and squeezing his hand tighter on the soul jar.

"You shouldn't worry so much," rumbled Usagi-san, his voice deep and smooth and, above all, kind. "Take your time to get yourself ready and then do whatever it is you need to do. Just don't get too worked up."

"Thank you, Usami-san," said Misaki slowly, meeting the man's astonishing gaze again and feeling the butterflies flicker to life one last time. No, he couldn't kill this man, not even for the sake of his own Akihiko, because he's too young, too kind, too much like Misaki's own. He released the grip he had held on the soul jar in his pocket and felt the wood give his fingers a sharp burn, like some punishment for his weakness.

"It was nice talking to you," said Akihiko, glancing back at the lit up party hall beyond and scowling, his hand falling from Misaki's head. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and 'mingle'."

"Um!" Misaki started suddenly and blushed. "Just one question before you go!"

"Yes?"

"The Takahashi family… How many children do they have?" His lower lip was trembling so hard, Misaki had to bite it firmly to make it stop.

"Two, I believe. Takahiro and…" Akihiko made a face and struggled for a moment. "Another son. About thirteen now, I think. Why?"

"No reason," laughed Misaki, nervously. So there was another him then. Hopefully he hadn't already ruined all Takahashi Misakis for this Usami Akihiko. It was bad enough that one Takahashi Misaki couldn't have his own Usagi-san, two would be a tragedy.

Even as a chill settled through the little courtyard, Misaki stayed put on his bench for the rest of the night. He knew his parents were inside, his brother too probably, but the meeting with Usagi-san haad been enough. If he had had to meet anyone else important to him then, tears would have occurred and he would have struggled to explain his sudden hysteria in any sort manner that made sense. So he just tucked himself up and waited until Nowaki came searching for him, telling him it was time to go.

* * *

For a couple days after the party, it was almost peaceful in the little flat. Kamijou had indeed come down with some sort of throat infection, and spent most of the time sipping tea and miso soup on the couch, a book on his knee and a enraptured expression on his face. Nowaki would spend his days at a practice down the road, doing a nine to five shift every day and coming home to drape himself over his Hiro-san and get shouted at.

Misaki hid in his guest room and tried to be as inoffensive as possible.

Finally, on the Wednesday, he became bored of this and decided to explore. He crept out that morning, while Nowaki was in the shower and Kamijou was sitting over a steaming bowl of fragranced water with a towel over his head to clear out his clogged sinuses. The neighbourhood outside was familiar enough and Misaki quickly located his position on his mental map of the city.

This Tokyo was much the same as Misaki's own, with maybe an occasional shop missing or a new skyscraper, so it was easy enough to get to the train station. He had a small handful of change to pay for a ticket, and his finger chose the destination without much input from his brain.

He'd chosen the station closest to the penthouse.

Of course, he told himself even as he passed through the ticket barrier and started down the steps to the platform, that he could just turn back now and go back to Nowaki and Kamijou's apartment. In fact, he didn't even need to go back there: it was a nice enough day, he could go for a walk or go sit in the park, or do any number of things that didn't involve going to Usami Akihiko's building.

Misaki went anyway. There hadn't been much chance of him not.

* * *

Someone had changed the code on the door. Misaki stood at the callbox and pressed the keys until his fingertips were red and sore and still the front gate stayed locked. For a moment he thought about calling the flat, but then dismissed that as just a bit weird for the current occupants.

Instead he trod over to a nearby wall and hopped up onto it, tucking his feet in close and lifting his head to try to see if he could spot any movement on the balcony outside the penthouse. It was hopeless, and he folded himself down again quickly. Some of the neighbours in this area were a bit paranoid and if they spotted Misaki acting like this, he would be arrested in moments.

While he sat on the wall, chin tucked into his knees, Misaki's mind began to drift back to the party and Usagi-san.

"Running away from something?" Usagi-san had suggested and Misaki had denied it so strenuously at first. The truth came to him now, a ton of bricks on his already weighted down shoulders. Yes, actually. As stupid and as unlikely as this whole scenario seemed, it was real. Misaki had no doubt about that, and that was terrifying.

At least Usagi-san had remained the irritatingly perceptive knowitall he had always been. Misaki was indeed running away – that night he'd had the chance to steal the man's soul and save his own Akihiko and he hadn't. He couldn't. He'd accepted that early on and then avoided the thought that he could have brought out the soul jar and simply changed worlds. But it was safe here. Different but not too different. Who knew what the next place might be like?

"Oh god…" muttered Misaki to himself, hugging his knees even tighter to his chest. "I'm so screwed."

* * *

This time the chill succeeded in managing to drive Misaki off his perch, but the young man had still got in a long day of huddling in silence and watching people who were his neighbours in another world walk by. By the time he came to move, his limbs were stiff and sore and it took twice as long to walk back to the station than it had to walk there.

Finding the doctor and announcer's apartment again was even trickier, but Misaki accomplished it by sheer accident and staggered up the stairs to knock on the door. Nowaki answered the door, wrenching it open so fast Misaki nearly toppled inside with shock, and then dragged the young man in without a word.

The doctor had a severe expression, and made it very clear over the next fifteen minutes that he was annoyed about Misaki running away like that. What if he had had another memory lapse? What if something had happened? Someone could have taken advantage of him and Nowaki wouldn't have been able to help. Meanwhile Kamijou lounged on the sofa and rolled his eyes irritably at some of his lvoer's mmore dramatic statement, and the combined antics of the two of them wore down on Misaki's strained nerves.

He had shouted at the young doctor, told him that he didn't have any right to worry like that, and had then stormed to his room like a stroppy teenager. He had even slammed the door and thrown himself on his bed to cry and everything. Now, a few hours later, the memory made him cringe with embarrassment, and the apartment was silent.

Desperate for a drink and a snack, Misaki crept out and discovered, to his horror, that Kamijou was still reading on the sofa. The man looked up over the rims of his glasses and fixed Misaki with a considering glare. Eventually he shrugged and looked back down to his novel again.

"Nowaki's gone to get take-out," he growled, no malice in his voice. "You wouldn't put some plates in the oven to warm while you're up, would you?"

Misaki did so obediently, even washing and polishing a trio of glasses to show willing. Finally he bit the bullet and said, "Kamijou-san, I should apologise for my behaviour earlier. I was rude when you let me into your home and I'm very ashamed." He bowed his head formally. "I really am sorry."

"Huh. Whatever."

Misaki looked up in shock.

Kamijou shrugged again. "Everybody has shitty days, kid. Anyway, it's good to see you aren't a complete doormat. I was starting to wonder about you."

Misaki's cheeks coloured abruptly with annoyance and embarrassment, turning to an almost neon glow when the man fixed him with than fiery gaze again and added, "This changes nothing, by the way. I still think you're a moocher."

The whole rigamarole was repeated when Nowaki returned home, only with more hugs and praise and apologies and much, much, much more glaring on Kamijou's part. Ashamedly, Misaki had eaten his dinner, ignoring his lack of appetite and consuming all that was served to him so he wouldn't seem to be taking their hospitality for granted again.

"We need to get an early night tonight," said Nowaki, as Misaki finished washing the last dish. "Race preparations start at Suzaku tomorrow and it'll be a long day for everyone."

That didn't stop Kamijou and Nowaki shagging until the early hours of the morning again. Misaki hid his head until his pillows and tried counting rabbits until dreams of his own blond, blue-eyed bunny swept him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler chapter is filler-y.
> 
> I freely admit to really liking this universe. I already have a plotline doodled out for a longer story in it – unrelated to this one in all aspects but the fact that there are race cars. I love race cars. Vroooom…

**Author's Note:**

> This is something different, and I'll hope you'll like it! It's been fuzzing around my hard-drive for a while, and just caught my attention again recently. I'll be able to explain the premise a bit better in Chapter 2, but I hope that Chapter 1 worked for everyone.


End file.
